Sushi & Other Smelly Foods

I'm kinda ripping off a post from another blog, Daydream Believer.  She talked about how she doesn't like Sushi. 

I like sushi OK.

If I am at a Japanese Restaurant, I will eat lots on sushi and enjoy it.  If I am at my mother-in-law's house, I will eat sushi and enjoy it.  But you won't see me searching through the fridge & cabinets hoping against hope that somehow there is an overlooked plate of sushi.  (I'm usually hoping for Ding dongs.  But they never materialize.  Sigh.)

My husband doesn't like sushi.  He's Japanese.  He's supposed to like sushi.

It's not that he doesn't like it.  He's allergic to fish. 

I married a Japanese guy allergic to fish.

That's like being married to a Frenchman allergic to cheese.

You know my husband isn't from Japan, right?  He's from California.  He says "Dude" and everything.  His parents aren't even from Japan.  They were both born in Hawaii.  But their parents are from Okinawa.  So technically, Greg is Okinawan, not Japanese.  I mean, he's American.  With Okinawan ancestry.  Or Japanese ancestry, depending on the point he's trying to make. 

Whatever he is, he is allergic to fish.  So we don't eat a lot of sushi.

Remember when sushi was weird?  Remember in Mr. Baseball when Jack (Tom Selleck) told Hiroko (Aya Takanashi) that he didn't eat bait?  I love that movie!  That was only 1992.

Sushi is very mainstream now.  You can buy it at the grocery store.  In Corpus Christi, Texas.  You can't get more mainstream than that. 

We do eat a lot of other weird foods though.

My boys love to go to the Asian Market.  We always buy a big tub of Nori.  Nori is dried strips of seaweed.  Sometimes we get teriaki flavored nori. Sometimes we buy plain.  My kids eat it like potato chips.  The whole tub never lasts more than a day.  I never eat any.

Sometimes we buy dried cuttlefish.  It's like fish jerky.  And it stinks.  Sometimes it is sugared.  Sometimes it is spiced with pepper.  It always SMELLS BAD.  Kids love it.  Not me.

We buy seaweed jelly to eat on rice.  I mean, for them to eat on rice.  It smells AWFUL. 

We always buy a tray of mochi.  Mochi is a soft doughy rice cake with sweet bean filling in the middle.  It's the consistency of a marshmallow.  It's actually pretty good, and I do eat it when we buy it.  I eat one.  Jojo will eat the whole tray if we let him.

The kids LOVE salted plums.  Salted plums are plums that have been soaked in a peppery brine for weeks, then dried.  They look like something studied in medical school.  They are so salty, my blood pressure rises just looking at the bag.

If my in-laws are coming to visit, we buy arare.  (Pronounced Ar-Ra-de)  That's flavored rice crackers with soy nuts, wasabi peas and dried fish.  Whole dried fish.  With heads and tails.  And eyes.  I love the crackers.  Love the soy nuts.  Love the wasabi peas.  The dried fish?  Not so much.  So I give them to the kids and they gobble them up like the good little nihonjin they are.

We also buy a jar of kimchi.  Kimchi isn't Japanese, but it's very stinky.  It is also very yummy, and even I like it.  I prefer the stink of kimchi over the stink of nori. 

I am glad my kids like Japanese and Asian food.  It's part of their cultural heritage.  Believe me, it's hard to promote Okinawan-Japanese-Hawaiian-Californian heritage in Texas. 


I would feed them Irish food, but the only Irish food I grew up with was Corned Beef & Cabbage, and I hate it.  Plus, cabbage stinks almost as bad as dried cuttlefish.   

I wish we were Italian.  Italian food smells heavenly. 

E-Commerce and finally getting the last word. . .

My first job out of college was working for Enterprise Rent a Car. 

ERAC is a great job for recent grads.  I truly enjoyed it.  I am glad I don't have to do it the rest of my life, but I highly recommend it as a first job for recent grads.  Especially Soc majors.  And Poli Sci.  Marketing.  Psych. History.  Basically, for anybody who isn't an engineer or accountant. 

When I made my trip to Austin, I rented a car for the 3 hour drive so as not to put my poor Saturn through the strain.  I rented from ERAC.

I get a little sentimental about ERAC.  I always lovingly reminisce to the 20-something assigned to me.  I tell my war stories.  I worked for ERAC in Los Angeles in the late 80's.  Most of the people who work there now weren't even born in the late 80's.

Lemme tell ya - I've got stories these kids couldn't imagine.  Like the time we rented a car to a used-to-be-famous actor whose initials are Tatum O'Neill.  She had a shrieking fit in the lobby because we asked for her drivers licence.  We weren't going to keep it Mrs. McEnroe, we just need the number.  Sheesh.  Rude.

Most of the really really rude people were the people in West LA who drove very high end cars and thought they were better than everyone.  Many were from the east coast, which for some reason they expected to impress us.  (Excuse me, sir?  Anyone can live in New York.  You don't have to fill out a membership application or anything.)

When I returned my car this trip, there was a customer in the office who was EXACTLY like those assholes in LA.  He was going over the rental agreement with a fine toothed comb, and every time he didn't like a word, he made the girl re-print it and sign it. 

Rental car contracts are pretty standard.  Basically, you agree to borrow the car, pay the agreed upon fee and don't intentionally damage it.  If you want, you can pay a little extra to have the rental car company cover any accidental damage.  Or not, and if there is an accident, your insurance covers it. 

Is that so hard?

Still - a contract is a contract, and I understand that he wanted to understand the whole thing.  That is not unreasonable. 

What is unreasonable was the way he reacted to every little clause as if the girl behind the counter was trying to personally defraud him. 

"I am NOT signing ANYTHING that states I have to pay extra if the gas isn't full.  I can't control your gas tanks.  There is NO WAY we are doing this deal if that clause is in there."

Patient Rental Girl smiled and reprinted it, then he'd find something ELSE to bitch about.  I swear she reprinted that thing at least four times while I was there.  I was there about five minutes.

As I was leaving, I couldn't help leaving a parting comment.

I said "Jeezes Chryst, dude.  You're renting a car, not buying a house." 
There was an embarrassed silence as Contract man stared blankly after me, as did most of the employees and all of the other customers.

The young man who drove me home was silent until we got on the freeway.

Then he said "That was awesome".

It was.

Austin, TX . . . My Kind of Town

Hi everyone!  Miss me?  I missed you! 

I had to go to Austin for work.

I should say "I got to go to Austin for work."  Because I like Austin.

I like the people I get to see when I am in Austin.  (Hi Marta!  It was so fun seeing you!  Thanks for reading me -- you are great!!!!). 

I like the pretty trees & hills in Austin.  I like the Capital building.  I like the LBJ Library.  (Especially the Lady Bird exhibit.  I don't care what your politics are, that woman was awesome.)

One of the things I like best about Austin is their ability to make a positive experience out of a situation that some people (like me) might find horrific.

Did you know that Austin is infested with bats?

But that's not how they say it.  They say "Austin has one of the largest urban bat colonies in North America."

People line up to see the bats come out at sunset. 

They actually wait in line to see creatures that look like flying mice from a horror movie.  And shit all over the place.  Hotels have built outdoor patios, so that people can dine alfresco while flying rodents swoop around catching bugs & screeching "eeeee  eeeee  eeeee eeeee".

I think that's cool!  So cool. 

If the city of Austin can generate thousands of tourist dollars on their rodent problem  I mean opportunity, then I can make the most of being a fat girl. 

Austin, you rock!

Girls & Girlfriends

No this is not about lesbians. 

Sorry, guys.  (I mean the men guys)

One of the best gifts of fat is that being fat has allowed me to have so many girlfriends.  Weight issues are one of the many things that bond women to each other.  And since I didn't spend my high school years being sired around town by cute guys, I spent lots of Saturday nights with my girlfriends.  Who I totally dumped whenever I DID get a date.  (Karen, Fran, Kristen, Nanci, Leslie, Liz: I'm so sorry!)

There is a type of girl that I pretty much can't stand tho. 

No, it is not the "Skinny Girl". 

In fact, I think it is mean spirited to say "She's so gorgeous, I hate her".  We all say it.  And we think we are being flattering.  But really, we're being mean.  So let's stop it, 'kay?

The girl I can't stand is the girl-hater.

The girl who doesn't have any close girlfriends, just close guy friends.

The girl who would watch football even if she were by herself AND there was a Sex in the City marathon on TV.

The girl whose best Friend is a guy who is madly in love with her but she just doesn't like him like that.

I hate that girl.  Wait.  I don't hate her.  She just bugs me.

Not because I care if her friends are guys.  I don't care if she likes football.  That's not why she bugs me.

She bugs me because she uses men to annoy other girls.

She bugs me because she says things like:  "I prefer guy friends because girls are just so catty"

Really?  Because that was pretty much the cattiest thing I have ever heard anyone say.  Ever.

The funniest thing about girl-haters is that guys can't understand why the rest of us are so annoyed by her.

My husband went to graduate school with one of the worst offenders I have ever met. 

She never said two words to him in school.  When the class got together socially (i.e with significant others),  suddenly she found him fascinating.  She laughed at all his jokes.  Even the really dumb ones.  He wore a crew cut back then & she made a point to run her hands through his hair.  She sat next to him whenever she could.

Don't misunderstand me.  I was not jealous. 

I was not jealous for two reasons.

1.  Greg had no idea she was flirting with him.  If she had given him a lap dance he still wouldn't get it.  Bless him, he just has no idea when someone flirts with him.  Even me.  If I can't be subtly romantic with him.  I have to say "kiss me now" if I want a kiss. 

2.  I knew she didn't like him.

Frankly, I was a little annoyed that she didn't like him because he really was one of the hottest guys in their class.  She really should have liked him.

I thought maybe I was feeling a little jealous, until I happened to chat with a few of the other wives.  She did the exact same thing to their men.  None of us can stand her. 

Fortunately, most girls are girlfriends.  Not girl-haters.

But they are out there.  And we girlfriends are on to them.

Trying to B Cool. . .

Remember how when you were a kid & your mom tried to relate to you and you got super embarrassed because she did it in front of your cooler-than-you friend?

Like the time in 6th grade when I was wearing shorts -- complete with contrasting trim thankyou1978!!!! -- and my mom told me they were too short because my balls were hanging out.  She said balls about 10 times.  With emphasis.

"You don't want everyone to see your balls.  I mean do you see anyone else's balls hanging out?  You need to put on a pair of shorts that doesn't show the world your balls."

Umm, mom?  Balls are testicles.  I don't have those.  I think you mean "buns".

Or the time I was in high school and mom told us about a drug bust she reported on that week.  (Mom worked for the Naperville Sun for many years.  She really is cool, despite what I am recounting here).

Mom told my friend and I that the perp was caught red-handed with several kilos of marijuana and cocaine. 

"You know," she said offhandedly, "Grass and Powder?"

Thanks for translating for me mom.  I shoulda corrected her:  "Mooooooom. You mean BLOW, not powder.  Jeezes."   (I didn't think of it.  I was too mortified.)

Once, in the mid 80's, I was visiting my friend Deenie.  Her dad came in the kitchen and said "Eeewww. There's something grody in the sink!"

Her perky mom came chirping in.  "Is there something grody to the max?"

It was nice to know that I'm not the only one.

I am a mom now.  My oldest is 9 already.  Prime embarrassing age.

Quick -- someone give me a hip, trendy phrase that I can screw up in public. 

Tangible Proof that Fat is a Gift.

I worked out this week with my friend Mary & her gorgeous daughter Rachel. 

Want to be intimidated?  Work out with a 15 year old.

I told her that she must continue to work out regularly for the rest of her life.  Or she'd find herself size 24 and 44 years old writing a blog about how hard it is to do push ups.

Mary (her mom, my friend) is not a size 24.  I think she's an 8 now.  She's strong.

And when you are a strong size 8, guess what?

Victor makes you clap between push ups.  He makes you take 2 stairs at a time in the pit.  He makes you do burpees.

And that?  Is one reason why fat is a gift. 

I am going to make a Starbucks run for something yummy.

Because I know Victor will make me pay for this post.

Love  you Vic!  See you 3pmish, 'kay?

Accenting the Obvious

Because I grew up in the Western Suburbs of Chicago, I have somewhat of a Chicago accent.


I like this accent. It’s useful.

I tend to be very direct. I say what I think. A Chicago accent gives me the leeway to be blunt. People south of St. Louis expect Chicago to be full of Pushy Broads, so when I act like one, no big deal.

Living in South Texas, I find that I have to work at keeping my accent. For example:

In South Texas, “Insurance” is pronounced IN-shur-ence. In Chicago, it’s in-SHUR-ence.

In South Texas, “Y’all” refers to a few people. “Alla y’all” refers to many people.
In Chicago, “You guys” refers to a few people. “All you guys” refers to several people.

I find the biggest misunderstandings in restaurants.

When I order a can of pop (pronounced “acanna paap”), I want a Coke Zero. I am frequently asked to clarify.

And for some reason, when I say something simple like “Baked Chicken and Steamed Vegetables”, waiters hear “Chicken Fettuccine with extra Alfredo. And a Tiramisu. With acanna paap.”

Regional differences. Whaddya gonna do?

If You Were Me

And someone gave you a generous gift certificate to a salon, what would you have done?

Toes -- obviously.  My feet are so in need of a pedicure that I am snagging my sheets.

But what else?

Can't be hair, because I only trust Kasey with the Red. 

Massage? 

I've never had that done.

Brazilian?

Never had that done either.

I hear good things about both.  I hear all the time about how WONDERFUL they are and how you FEEL SO GREAT afterwards and all I can think is: 

Someone besides my husband or OB/GYN will be touching my fat and/or touching me in my girl parts. 

Ummmm. . .No.

Yes I am an enlightened, fun, confident fat girl. 

Yes I have lots (and lots) of wild before-I-met-my-husband stories.

No I don't want anyone touching me.

I have a space bubble.

Unless I married you or gave birth to you, you are not allowed in the bubble.  (And if anyone knows a way to keep the people I gave birth to out of the bubble, I'd love to hear it.)

Anyone?  Anyone?

Dear Cancer:

You suck.

You used to scare everyone silly, but we are not afraid of you anymore.

You didn't get my mom.  You didn't get my dad.  You didn't get my mother in law & you're not gonna get my bff Rae! 

She shaved her head & then know what she did?

She smiled for a photo & posted it on FACEBOOK.  So there.

You can try to beat us all you want, but we know how to fight.  And we will keep fighting.

You might as well just go away. 

And never come back.

Jobs I'm Glad I Don't Have

Occasionally, someone will tell me that there is NO WAY they could do what I do for a living. 

My career has been in sales & sales management.  I have to prospect, present, prospect, propose, prospect and also prospect.  I give a lot of public presentations and I make a lot of cold calls. 

A cold call is when you call someone who doesn't know you and try to get them to meet with you to buy whatever you are selling.  It is a really, really, really sucky part of sales. 

Fortunately, I don't have to cold call as much as I used to.  I used to have to make 50 calls a day.  My boss would count my cards to ensure I really did it. 

Another part of my job that people don't like is the "uniform".  I have always sold business-to-business, and always in industries that required hose & heels.  I will never forget cold calling in Phoenix in early June, wearing a Jones of New York coat dress, hose, and Nine West pumps.  It was an adorable outfit.  But it's 100 degrees in Phoenix in June.  Nine West pumps sink into asphalt.  And Jones of New York doesn't look as cute when it's covered in sweat stains.

It's a living.

To me, it's much much much much better than:

Teaching K-12.  Especially in a public school.  If this is your calling, then you rock.  I teach CCD classes for an hour on Sunday.  That's all I can handle. 

Teaching Pre-K anywhere.  All the difficulty of K-12, plus changing diapers.  And you aren't unionized, get virtually no health benefits, and have to work crappy hours.

Nursing.  Any kind of nursing.  Bodies are gross.  Especially sick or injured bodies.  The nurses who cared for me after my C-Sections are SAINTS. 

Accounting.  I am lucky that I get to work with some amazing accountants.  They give me nice, clean, easy to read reports.  If I had to compile one of those reports, I would commit Hara Kiri. 

Architect. Sounds cool and glamourous.  In reality, I would be bored to tears.  Would rather watch paint dry.

Attorney:  I thought I wanted to be an attorney once upon a time.  Then I got to work in a law office and saw first hand what attorneys do all day.  They READ all day.  They read really boring things like property titles. 

Realtor.  I actaully wouldn't mid this, but they have to work nights.  Plus they have to put one of those Glamour Shots photos on their business card.  No thanks.

Chef.  Looks good on TV.  Which just shows you that if TV can make you believe that a job where you are in a hot kitchen until 2 in the morning is a great job, then TV can make you believe anything.

Veterinarian.  If I had to work with animals all day, I'd rather be a butcher.  That's just me.

If you have one of these jobs, good on ya!  You don't ever have to worry about me coming along and trying to take it. 

I probably should have posted this on Labor day.  Oh well. 

Happy belated Labor Day everybody!

It Rhymes With Floor

It rhymes with Floor, and Door and Bore. . .and I am one.



I am a blog whoooooore.

I didn't mean to.

It was just one time.  And then it happened again.

I read a blog I like a lot, Annabel Manners, and then I read one of the blogs she follows, The Sweet Tea Diaries, then I saw one that SHE follows, The Loaded Handbag, and then she referenced a great blog and before you know it, my dance card is filled with blogs.  And that's on top of my longtime (several month) favorites Loose Leaf Writing and The Bitchy Waiter.

I think we're a bunch of funny women who love to read other funny women -- I mean, people.So we comment on a blog, then we look each other up & find their blogs, love them then keep going.

This is how I started on Facebook.  Uh oh.

She Broke The Rule

Fair Warning:  this post is about a very crass subject.  So if you don't want to read it, I understand.  May I recommend Loose Leaf Writing, Annabel Manners or The Bitchy Waiter instead. 

And if you read it anyway, (Mom), I don't want to hear about it. 

I was recently in a ladies room.  I had to pee.

Because in a ladies room, it is acceptable to:

1. Pee
2. Reapply Lipstick
3. Change into gym and/or going out clothes

It is NOT acceptable to

1. Crap
2. Shit
3. Poop
4. Fart.  (unless you are CERTAIN it cannot be heard)

Poop is OK if you are under 6 and your mom is taking you to the ladies room.

Ladies rooms are not for taking a dump. 

If you have to drop one, go home.  YOUR home.  Ladies never ever ever pollute an other's home.

I understand that these rules should be relaxed for certain ladies.  Some visitors from other nations may not know the rules.  Pregnant women are exempt, as are very senior citizens.  (Mom, I know you're still reading.  I mean senior citizens older than you.  You can't go into a public restroom and drop a load).

I know all the women reading know this.  I was just explaining to the men.

On the way home from work tonight, I popped into the ladies' to pee.  A well dressed, 40ish woman was already there.  She was applying lipstick, which, as I explained earlier, is perfectly acceptable.

We exchanged courtesies for a moment.  Then we each headed for our stalls.  We didn't take adjacent stalls, because it is against the rules to sit in adjacent stalls unless the bathroom is full.  (I think even men have this rule).

It wasn't long before I heard a loud, wet squelching sound.  Then a soft grunt.  Then more sounds.  Then water splashing.  

Then I hear her get on her cell phone.  Cell phones are still a grey area.  Personally, I vote against talking on the cell while in the facilities.  Especially when the call sounds like this:

"Hey". . .squelch. ."whatcha -- ungh -- doin'?" . . splash.

OMG.

Oh. Mah. Gaw.

OH MY SWEET JE-AY-SUS- IN HEAVEN!!!!!!!

SHE KNEW I WAS IN THERE. 

How could she not know the rules?  She was clearly a middle income, middle aged AMERICAN woman. She wasn't even middle aged.  She was my age!  She had an i-phone for chrissake!

Could she not have at least waited until I left?  Seriously -- how long would it have taken me?  Pee, zip, wash hands.  Two minutes.  Five minutes tops.  She can't hold it for five minutes before she stinks up the bathroom that I am using too?

What is this country coming to?  We already have a sign in every restroom that says EMPLOYEES MUST WASH HANDS AFTER USING THE TOILET.

It's bad enough to have signs that say DO NOT FLUSH SANITARY PRODUCTS DOWN THE COMMODE.

Sometimes you even see that stupid rhyme:  IF YOU SPRINKLE WHEN YOU TINKLE, PLEASE BE NEAT AND WIPE THE SEAT.

Do we have to post signs saying: LADIES DO NOT TAKE CRAPS IN PUBLIC BATHROOMS ESPECIALLY IF THERE IS SOMEONE ELSE IN HERE.

Sheesh.

Mom -- I'm serious.  Not a word.  I mean it.  I'll call you later.

Feeling Grownup. . .

I have "officially" been an adult for 24 years.

I admit that sometimes I feel old, but I don't usually feel like a "Grownup".

Maybe it's because I am the youngest person in my office.  I dunno.

But this morning. . . .

After dropping my littles off to school, I was heading to work down a busy avenue.

Two tweeny girls were walking to school.  I knew they were tweens because they were both dressed exactly alike -- and they obviously weren't sisters.  I should say that they were both accessorized exactly alike, as they were wearing the requisite white-polo-khaki-pants uniform.   They each wore pink hoodies, identical pink sketchers and carried identical Justin backpacks.  They each wore their hair tied in a pink chongo on top of their heads.  They walked with that self-conscious gait that tweens have.  They were cute.

Then, one of them tosses her Red-Bull can on the ground.

Excuse me?

Were you born in a BARN?

Without thinking, I pulled my car into the median, rolled down the window, and in my best MOM voice, yelled:

"Sweetie!  Pick up that can you dropped!  Find a trash can and throw it away.  I KNOW you know better."

Slightly chagrined, Tween picked it up.  Good girl.

MOM voice said:  "Thank you, honey.  Have a good day, okay?"

It was a reminder that I am.

I am.

I am a GROWNUP.

Kids have to listen to me.

I can boss them around if I want. 

All I have to do is use that voice that all my mom's friends used on me when I was a kid.  Mrs. Klumb, Mrs. McHugh, Mrs. Kennedy, Mrs. Reeves.  All the great ladies of my youth were with me as I gently but firmly corrected a young lady.

Sure, they can cuss & smoke and do rebellious things when I am not there.  Sure, Tween might have tossed the can back on the ground as soon as I left.

But I am going to give her the benefit of the doubt. 

She knows she has to listen to a grownup.

Crushes, Puppy Love and The Real Thing

There are some men that I think are dreamy.   You know what I mean.  They make me sigh.  And swoon.  And giggle.  I guess you could say I have a crush on them.

My boss is dreamy.  He is.  He's about 6'2", slim, with a lantern jaw, bright blue eyes and silver hair.  He is also the consummate southern gentleman.  I've always thought he was very handsome, but now that I really know him, I simply adore him.  He is as beautiful inside as out.

Dr. Mark Escamilla is dreamy.  Yes, he's very nice looking, but his dreaminess is more because he is so innovative, so connected, and so real.  He also has the most beautiful family -- lovely wife and 2 precious littles.  I swear I'd give the man a kidney if he needed it.

Vic is dreamy.  I mean it's obvious.  Incredibly fit, handsome, and so encouraging on my fitness journey. 

I even have a tiny bit of a cougar-crush on Ricky, who is Vic's assistant.  He is just the nicest guy.  Also very handsome, if you think Leonardo De Caprio is handsome -- and I know you do. 

I love these guys.  I do. When I get all swoony over Dr. Mark, or Vic, or any of the many many many men (and women) that I have a crush on, the casual observer may misconstrue my intentions.



Because I don't wanna kiss them or anything. 

I don't want  my children to look like them. 

I don't want to grow old with any of them.  (In fact, I am pretty sure I will be dead by the time Ricky is old)

The man I really love is Greg, my husband.  He's the one I want to kiss, etc.    He's the one my babies look like.  He's the one I want to grow old with.

Greg knows that I think the world of these people.  He also knows that he is my whole world. 

And he knows I think he's super dreamy. 

Doing it all. . .

Are you impressed with me that I an a mother of three, work a full time job, blog, go to graduate school, blog, workout regularly, blog, and volunteer at my church?

Don't be.

Because there is no way I could do it without my husband.

Husbands are funny.  Wives like to get together and roll our eyes over the silly things they do.  Like teach our children to burp their ABCs.  At least they know their ABC's right?

My husband works two jobs -- three if you count the "architect-on-loan" deal he is doing right now.  My husband works most of the weekend, because architects are all about deadlines.  And budgets, which is why he doesn't bill most of his weekend work.

My husband does the dishes every night.  We don't own a dishwasher, and he can't stand to see dirty dishes left over night (I can), so he does them. 

My husband really likes our kids.  I like 'em too, but Greg thinks playing with them is the funnest thing since skateboarding.

My husband gets that my job is super important to the family because there is less a threat of layoff as with his, and because I carry the insurance.  He also gets that I really enjoy it.  He supports me going to school because he knows that I need a Masters in order to move ahead. 

He supports me volunteering at church.  Really, we're both volunteering.  I am at the church, he is at home with the boys.  Believe me, both are important.

He doesn't read my blog unless I make him.  Which is good, because he would be super embarrassed if he knew that I was writing about him.

I just thought you should know. 

It's my husband that enables me to do it all. .. .

I don't know how he does it!

Bragging a little

I'm kinda proud of myself today.  Since I started V-Fit, I'm down about 15 lbs, and 9% body fat.  The 9% is the big deal.  According to the AMA, I have officially reduced my risk of diabetes, heart disease and stroke.  Yeay me.

But what make me REALLY proud of myself is that I did burpees today.  Burpees are these crazy exercises where you put your hands on this log thing, kick both your legs out into the push up position, then jump your legs back in and then jump up.  Then you have to do 19 more. 

They are very owie.  But I did 'em!

I also did something I never thought I'd do.  (No not that.  I do that all the time.  How do you think I have been happily married for almost 18 years?)

When I was first starting out, I met these really great girls who work out with Victor.  (Holla Maria & Laurie!)  They are cute, fit & strong. 

I remember watching Laurie squat jump with both feet onto a step.  I thought "No.  Fucking. Way."

(Mom, Phyllis & Nora -- don't bother e-mailing me about my language.  I know, I know.)

Today I SQUAT JUMPED WITH BOTH FEET ONTO A STEP!  

OMG!

When Laurie does it, she looks sleek & strong.  When I do it, I look like the Michelin Man's chubby little sister.  Who cares?  I did it!

So I'm bragging a little.

Gift of Fat: Empathy

I feel bad when people are hurting. 

I think I have empathy because I know what it's like to be teased.  To be judged. 

One of my friends killed himself last weekend.

I can't imagine what he felt, how he struggled, what was going through his mind.  I have no idea.

I have no idea what his family feels right now.  All I know is that it's pretty bad.

I know that whatever he was feeling that night, he was struggling to get away from it. His bible was with him, passages were highlighted that give some clue of what he was asking God.


In the end, the depression -- or whatever it was -- won.

Is it empathy to be annoyed with people for saying things like:

"All he had to do was reach out and we could have helped him"
"Why did he do it?"
"Nothing could be that bad."
"He was a Christian, how could he?"

I know we all grieve differently.  I know we are all sad -- and mad -- that this happened to our friend. 

I just can't help feeling that people are judging him.  And it makes me angry.  Is that empathy? 

KK, I hope you are OK now.

Back to Grad School

I am working on my MBA.

I am working on it VERY S-L-O-W-L-Y.

I am taking it slow because I am paying cash. The only debt we have left (except for our house) is the one million dollar student loan we are paying for my architect husband's masters degree. Which he finished in 1997. And, if you will refer to my post about the frickin' Brady Bunch, you will know that architects don't make the kind of money that Mike Brady led everyone to believe. Bastard.


I graduated from college (Go Big Red!) in 1988.  That was last century.  I have a degree in Political Science.  Which, for all intents and purposes is useless.  

Wait -- it's not useless.  It's just not terribly useful.  There is a difference.

I am pursuing my MBA because I work for a College.  If you want to ever get promoted at a college, you must have a Masters.  Preferably not in Political Science.

Getting a Masters is very interesting.  For one thing, it makes me feel old.

I am not the oldest person in my class.  There is one woman  older than me, but she just finished her Bachelors.  I got my Bachelors TWENTY-TWO YEARS AGO.  We didn't even have laptops back then. 

Ironically, graduate school also makes me feel like a petulant 5 year old.  This is because in each class I have taken thus far, the professor has felt the need to give us this lecture on the first day:

"You are in Graduate School now.  You must expect to do higher level work.  You can't just coast through."

No Shit, Dr. Sherlock.  I know he is talking to the 22 year olds and not to me.  Do graduate students really behave so badly?  Really?

Last semester was fun.  There were a lot of undergrads in the class.  We had to do group projects. 

I said "who wants to be in the group with the old lady?"

Immediately this little frat boy raised his hand.

I looked at him & said "You just want me to buy beer for you, don't you?"

This semester is all graduate students.  All very young looking graduate students.  I feel like a chaperon. 

I'm not buying beer for anyone.